Just a quick little administrative post to let you know that I haven’t just been ignoring comments, all kicked back and too-cool-for-school (or responding). The little program I use to ninja block all the comments from non-humans works a little too well, and I had to figure out a few kinks and bugs and stuff to be able to comment back, at all, myself.

I may be missing a few eyelashes, but it’s finally been figured out. Fixed. Responses sent and henceforth coming in a timely manner. Falsely projected snobbery and laziness remedied.

Also, regarding my promised giveaway from my first post: I didn’t forget about that, either. Well, maybe kind of a little bit. But anyway, to make up for it, EVERYONE WINS! YOU get a treat! and YOU get a treat! and YOU get a treat! AHHHH!

If and only if you left a comment on my first post (Patricia, Sharon, Nicole, Kris, and Josh) – shoot me an email at chronicuriosity(@)gmail(.)com by this Wednesday, February 20, and include your preferred shipping address, to claim your beetus-busting prize of homemade fleur de sel caramels. Faja, yours are downstairs waiting, and Madge, I’ll make you some hummus or something, you carb snob.

See kids? This is what your teachers meant when they deducted ten points for forgetting to name and date your homework, insisting that it matters to “follow directions carefully.”

I start most of my days unremarkably – fidgeting through the short coordinates of tasks required to unlock and silence my phone-as-alarm-clock. I’m sure it’s at least 83% rote muscle memory, but the short sequence is varied just enough in dexterity and cognitive requirements that I’m irrevocably awake by the time the noise stops.

But bed is warm. Bed is good. Still is good. So in ceding the fight between how I am and how I wish I was, I split the difference by setting up my morning meds, caffeine fix and a small “pre-breakfast” on my nightstand before going to bed; then when I wake up, I thank Cheese for #firstworld technology, toss the pills down the hatch, and burrow in with my fizz and furchild to quickly thumb through email and facebook for anything urgent, then spend another hour or so catching up on the news.

I make it a priority to read a handful of sources from varying perspectives; but I also make it a priority to not just Hoover through a bunch of facts and circumstances, but to read columns, and editorials, and essays – the things that tell you how those facts and circumstances are affecting the world around you, and how other people – people like you, people very unlike you – are interpreting those facts and circumstances.  The things that get to the heart of why the facts matter in the first place.

Do I want to know what I’m talking about before engaging in a conversation about it? Of course. For me, the why has always been the reason for knowing the facts in the first place, and the thing worthy and in need of discourse. Why is it happening? Why does it matter? Why is this person, or group, or place, more affected than this other? Why has it changed? Why hasn’t it changed?

But lately, I’ve been just sort of uneasy about how…well, honestly? How vapid many of my conversations seem to have become. It started off somewhat intentionally, if I’m honest, though (as always) with the best of intentions. In short, I just wanted a break from being everyone’s “thinky friend” at best; and if I’m being really honest, to see if I could do anything about the creeping suspicion that I was truly, deeply loved, but frequently also humored, or tolerated, by those around whom I let my guard down. For lack of better phrasing, I wanted to try to give people a break.

I always have been and will be intense, period; relatedly, I’ve never been one much for small talk among good friends; I’m not going to strike up a policy debate with a sales associate or fellow air traveler (don’t get me wrong, I’ll totally take the bait and go there if you want to, I’ve just at least –finally – learned not to start it). But I’ve just never understood the point of, or been very good at, spending a three hour lunch with a girlfriend or a night at the bar with a guy I’m getting to know… talking about nothing but clothes, or TV plots, or workouts. I go deep, fast, and am most comfortable treading there -  but most of all, it’s not intentional, or a concerted effort – it’s genuinely just how I think and talk and operate, and is just as natural and default-mode for me as the more, erm, normal? conversations are for (presumably) a lot of other people.

So after I came to the shocking realization that what I find “stimulating” many folks find “draining”, then getting over my frustration (and mild resentment) that if it’s not the way most of the my world works, it doesn’t much matter that I happen to find extended, little-else-but-skimming-the-surface interactions equally exhausting; I went about trying to start with what is, rather than what “should” be, and adapt accordingly.

Theoretically speaking, this meant – or I intended it to only mean – not being the one to start the conversations about the “deep stuff”, keeping a keen eye out for when I’m going there by someone else’s definition when I’m not by my own, and trying to bob around where other folks are most comfortable, most of the time, so that when I drag them in to the deep end and force them to stay there with me a minute, they know it’s because it matters, and not because I just think it’s fun to watch people sweat and shiver at the same time.

Practically speaking, it’s meant choking on a lot of urgency on my part, confusion and frustration over where to “hook the buoys”, so to speak, and spending the better part of six months either remaining relatively aloof and quiet, or verbally vomiting one of a handful of pop culture facts at random tangentially-related to the topic at hand in a woefully failed attempt to interact without dragging people into the deep end against their will and without swimmies, and rekindling some mild social anxiety in the process.

But most of all, it’s meant not greater peace or ease in my relationships, but a palpable resignation and apathy on my part; a subconscious, piecemeal drift away from even knowing and caring about “the things” myself, until one day not long ago I woke up and started to “read the news” as I always do, and read a few fluff essays on gender politics, and pop psych in business pieces…but mostly advice columns, and vegan mommy fitness blogs instead. And then realized that’s really all I had read for at least a week or so. Nothing (much) against either, but I’m neither being cheated on nor questioning my parentage, and I’m a sworn-childless unmarried twentysomething who can be brought to the verge of tears by really good pork belly and fantasizes about bopping little calorie counting gym-bunny-foo-foo upside *her* head for once.

Methinks I just might hath swung too far in that fair, far, most opposite of directions. Such that perhaps, I might actually be somewhat responsible for the aforementioned, disproportionately vapid balance of content of my passive information streams these days. Maybe I’m not seeing the conversations, sometimes, precisely because I’m not starting them.

So #sorryI’mnotsorry, but yeah, I’m reading and watching real news again. And slowly, finally, caring about real news again. Like, a lot. And while I’m still going to work to keep the font-of-current-events at a gentle trickle instead of a firehose, I’m going to keep honoring the part of me that feels sincerely put upon to actually talk about what I hear, and see, and think about going on in the world.

I’m going to trust that just as I would never expect – or even want – my fitness-obsessed friends to just shut up completely and never talk to me about anything physical, physical, let’s…get… – because it’s part of who they are, and what makes them passionate, and happy, and them – that the people who care about me most will want me to stay true to that fire, my armchair senator, stuck in traffic daydreaming about how to solve the world’s problems. And I’m going to trust that for some folks, they keep me around partly because I make them think about certain things. Like, make them. Force feed it.

So here they shall be, your mid-week Brain Wheaties. The newsy vitamins you know you need, but aren’t particularly inclined to dig past the front pages or first 15 minutes to find. State of the Union coverage, the Pope resigning for the first time in almost 600 years, that batshit murderous rogue cop in California? That’s all above-the-fold stuff – a hop, click and a jump on virtually any news outlet of choice and you’ve got all the deets you need and then some.

For now? If you read nothing else this week, go check out this article in Esquire about the actual individual who fatally shot Osama Bin Laden…and has been left completely hung out to dry: “Unlike former SEAL Team 6 member Matt Bissonnette (No Easy Day), they do not rush to write books or step forward publicly, because that violates the code of the ‘quiet professional.’ Someone suggested they might sell customized sunglasses and other accessories special operators often invent and use in the field. It strains credulity that for a commando team leader who never got a single one of his men hurt on a mission, sunglasses would be his best option [emphasis mine].”

And then come back and give me your best why.

Last week for Tenant’s Meal, my dad decided just as I got back from the store that, um, actually, he was really hungry right now, so how about we go out and grab something, and I just cook for Madge and her friend tomorrow since he’d be out of town?

Done.

Part of the way this whole deal is designed is essentially to be a game in menu costing – meaning, that I’m paid a flat X amount per Tenant’s Meal (of at least 3 courses), and obviously, the greater the delta between my food costs and that amount, the greater the amount I pocket.

So naturally, I pay attention to what’s, um, featured at a few various markets on the given day I’m going to be cooking. Obviously, I check out the specials for the deals, but I’ve also been introduced to new things, or encouraged to actually try making others I normally just enjoy when someone else is at the stove, simply because it’s put in front of me. Which is how I finally discovered two things last week: a) Mommy wow! I can cook fish, like the kind with scales and gills, after all (and craptarts is it easy!) and b) Steelhead Trout. At all. <—This is the part you’ll thank me for later.

Before I go further, I should make a distinction that I’m not nervous about cooking all fish. In fact, shellfish has been my go-to crutch protein for years. Whether living on my own or con familia, I’ve pretty much always had a bag of raw shrimp in the freezer to defrost and sauté with lemon and soy sauce (I save the flaming onion stack and “Japanese egg roll!” for birthdays) or obscene, it’s-nights-like-this-it’s-good-to-be-single amounts of garlic, with a splash of lemon, white wine, maybe some roasted tomatoes, whatevs. Seriously, frozen (raw) shrimp have been the difference between real.live.dinner. and “pierce film to vent” more times than I’m proud to admit. 

They aren’t just sweatpants food, though, oh no. Need a semi-impressive dinner for an untold number of people? Enter seafood risotto – shrimp, scallops, a little lump crab for good measure; serve with massive salad, fabulous bread and good wine, and it’s like literal loaves and fishes that can be stretched between two or twenty. Bunch of carb-phobic killjoys? (HI, MOM!) Cioppino works just as well – and yes, it does have “fish-fish”, but somehow “select freshest firm, white fish available; cut in chunks; drop in pot” doesn’t petrify me the way “potentially scald yourself down to the bone with broiling hot popping fish oil” has. Same massive salad, maybe some pasta to serve alongside for the Carpe Calories crowd, and you’re good to go.

But fish fish? Like, the kind I’d happily eat 6 days a week if it didn’t stink up my kitchen or have scales ‘n stuff? I don’t know why, because I know that plenty of people who all but set toast on fire cook fish, successfully, on the regular – but I’ve just had this psychological hangup about cooking fish. I think partly because it’s been a pretty exclusive grill protein in my world – even in the dead of winter, my mom would whip up the salads and sides and all that fabulousness inside, prep the fish and all, but my dad would come home, light the grill, pour a drink, and go throw the fish on; come back in, and in the time he unpacked and settled in from work, ta-da, fish is done (the man takes roughly 7:34 to get ready for the day, shower-to-shoes, so this is not a long process). But seriously – when you can have nomnom grilled fish in January, why would you bother even risking stinking up your kitchen?

Because not everybody has a grill, and it’s oh-my-god-I’m-almost-angry-at-myself-easy, THAT’s why. Oh, and because it doesn’t stink up your kitchen! At least, it doesn’t have to.  If you have an oven, a few aromatics, fifteen minutes and some foil, you have no excuse to not be eating your half-priced, hot-pink, omega-3 packed sustainable filet of deliciousness as frequently as you damn well please. That’s right. Salmon-that’s-not-salmon, for half the cost of salmon, with the same nutrition as salmon. Boom.

By now, we all know how delicious and healthy and wonderful and sea-flesh-of-the-gods salmon is, right? But unfortunately, it’s not always the most sustainable option, and while wild salmon is definitely healthier and tastier (don’t waste your tastebuds, money, or eco-karma on farmed, y’all), it’s not always in season, aka particularly affordable. There’s also that thing where salmon has been the default “but we’re sick of chicken” protein in my house since roughly 1997, so delicious as it may be, it’s got some wear…some “meh”… some “vanilla fish”, if you will, attached to it. For me. Because I’m weird. Salmon isn’t special. Or on trend. And Tenant’s Meal is supposed to be special and on trend.

Trout, however, is making a comeback. It’s a great “local” option almost anywhere, because if you’ve got a big enough lake within 100 miles, you’re bound to have edible trout; it’s got many if not all of the same nutrients as the other, more popular anti-inflammatory favorites, and –wait for it – it’s generally a lot cheaper. So when I saw that there was some “steelhead trout” fishymahbob featured at my local market, I did a little googlin’ to figure out exactly what it was I was contemplating serving, and kind of flipped out – in a good way.

Steelhead trout is the exact same species as Rainbow Trout – it’s just the ocean-dwelling variety, whereas Rainbow Trout is found in lakes, rivers, streams and the like. Because it lives a more salmon-y lifestyle, it develops more like salmon, and therefore, ends up looking, and tasting, more like salmon – in fact, some markets will sell it as “salmon trout”, and in a blind taste test, it’s hard for a lot of average, “um…I just like fish?” types to tell them apart. It gets better – not only does it stand up to salmon on the plate, but in the nutritional deets, as well, with roughly the same amounts of omega-3’s, niacin and B12 as our former favorite pink fish.

I had to give it a shot, and mother of pescatarians, am I glad I did. We’ve already eaten it again since I made it the first time (and I’m about to go faceplant in the costco-sized leftovers as soon as I hit “publish”).

Naturally, there were other courses and veggies involved, but I’m trying to get better about remembering that I can, um, split up posts? That this internet thing, it’ll be here tomorrow, and the next day? So yeah. Sideshow noms to follow. But honestly? who needs em? You’re really not going to want to eat much else, I promise. It’s that good.

Smack Serve Yo Mama Broiled Steelhead Trout with Lemon and Herbs

adapted from epicurious.com

INGREDIENTS:

1 lb steelhead trout filets, (skin status doesn’t matter)

3 cloves garlic, minced (or ground into a paste; or 2 cloves worth of squeezy paste garlic)

2 TBSP fresh rosemary, chopped so insanely fine it’s almost dust-like (because you only have to get gum-stabbed by rosemary once to be suspect of it forever)

2 tablespoons fresh basil, chopped similarly paste-fine (I actually used the squeezy basil for this instead, intentionally and preferably)

zest of one large or two meyer lemons

juice of the same

salt and pepper to taste

2 TBSP olive oil (give or take), plus more for the pan

TO-DO:

Make sure your oven racks are adjusted such that there’s one in the middle or higher, and one on the bottom or second-to-bottom slots.

Preheat broiler (There’s a button on your oven that says “BROIL” – Push it. THE END – usually – and if not, then select “LO / MED /HI” or comperable. Nothing scary, promise).

Line a baking sheet or roasting pan with foil and brush with olive oil

Mix the garlic, rosemary, basil, lemon zest, lemon juice, salt, pepper, and 1-2 TBSP of the olive oil. If you have a mortar and pestle, this would be a good time to bust it out. If not, make sure your ingredients really are chopped as finely as you can manage without including bits of your digits, then whisk it until your fingers go numb. Kidding. Kind of.

Place the fish on your prepared pan, skin-to-foil if your fish has skin (mine did). Spread the herb mixture over the exposed fleshy part of the fish,  covering evenly and heavily.

Place the fish under the broiler (on the middle rack or higher) for about 5 minutes, or just until it begins to really sear the meaty, face-up portion – but definitely before the herbs begin to brown or smell funny.

Switch your oven to it’s temperature-specific setting (this is often the “BAKE” button, but sometimes as vague as “START”) and adjust to 325F degrees. Move the fish to the lower rack and continue to let it do it’s thing for another 10-ish minutes, or until cooked to your desired doneness in the thickest section.*

Transfer to platter or plates, and consume without concern for carb or calorie (if that’s your thing).

*NOTE: If you have a huge piece of fish the size of a small toddler like they sell at Costco, and are preparing this planning to have leftovers to reheat later, go ahead and pull from the oven while the sides/thinner parts are ready-to-eat, but the middle/thickest portions are still a little underdone. That way, when you nuke your fish for lunch tomorrow, it’s got a little wiggle room to keep cooking, and you’re not angrily choking it down between sips of water, remembering how buttery and delicious it was last night and cursing the fluorescent desk lighting under which you’re now forced to consume such a delicacy. I mean, go ahead and curse the lighting, but don’t pile on by force-feeding yourself dry fish if you can help it.